


The Guilt Of A Mother

by ThatPeskyBoat



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Child Neglect, Cute?, Guilt, Humanstuck, In which Mindfang is a guilty mother, It get's cuter okay bear with me here, Mentions of Aranea - Freeform, Mentions of The Summoner, Mentions of Vriska - Freeform, Other, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8704897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatPeskyBoat/pseuds/ThatPeskyBoat
Summary: In which Mindfang ventures into the room of the last child of hers that actually lives with her, and finds out some things about both them and her own feelings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Mindfang's perspective. It's kind of angsty, sad, Serkety, but also kind of cute, in its own way. In case you ignored the tags, this does include self-harm, so please be aware of that. Otherwise, enjoy!

Looking down upon the little abomination that I had created, I took a moment to look at them. They were sleeping, peacefully almost. If one could call the troubled dreams of a depressed adolescent peaceful, then absolutely. Not quite sure of what to make of this child and my sudden urges to be more... affectionate towards them, I simply perched on the edge of their bed. Honestly, I never usually ventured into their room, having not had much interest in them before these days. Yet here I was now, gazing upon their sleeping features. Perhaps it was the fact that they were the last of my offspring that were still residing in my home that had brought this sudden onslaught of feeling for them, or perhaps it was guilt that tremored within me. After all, they were the only child that I had created with the only man that had actually had any promise in my life. It was truly a shame that he-  
  
No, I shan't think about that. Painful memories should be left to the recesses of a broken and twisted mind. It does not bode well to dwell upon such things. My thoughts were interrupted anyhow by the child shifting in their sleep and murmuring something under their breath. Another thing that I hadn't known about them: they spoke in their slumber. Quite suddenly and undesirably, the realisation that I was not all that knowledgeable about my own child struck me, and a pang caused something that usually went so well undisturbed to twang within my chest, a lone, solemn note in an orchestra of chaos.  
  
I leant over them to brush some of the hair out of their face, neatening it to lay across their forehead in a way that was slightly more orderly than the mess that it usually was. My fingers trailed to the short hair at the side of their head that had been shaved so recently. Except - I couldn't remember the last time that they had requested that I do it for them. The thought caused me to close my eyes and take a steadying breath. I knew nothing about them and their desires. They had gotten a job of their own accord, and had obviously taken the liberty of redecorating their room to their tastes. If I were to look around, I could evidentially gain a superficial understanding of their hobbies and interests, but was that truly enough? They were 18. For 18 whole years, I have ignored them in favour of my other two daughters. For what? For the fact that they reminded me of him every time I saw them? For the fact that the other two were more like myself? Guilt wracked me again as I ran my digits through the shorter hair that grew by their ears, taking care to use the hand that lacked rings. How could I be so negligent of something that I had created?  
  
It was barely a surprise to me that I should know so little about them. Barely catering to their needs, only getting them things if they requested them, asking them what they desired for Christmas and their birthday, as well as new clothes when they were getting worn. Once I thought that I was a good mother, perhaps even one of the better ones. Now, I am not so certain in my assumptions.  
  
Looking about their room, I realised that they had a knack for crafting things. Not something that I would have initially thought of them, seeing as their hands were far too awkward for much more than the clumsy handling of most things. Many an expensive glass had fallen victim to them, almost as if their hands were constantly oiled with a lubricant so potent that not even tree bark could remain within them for more than a minute and four seconds. Though, that was possibly part of what made them so alike to him. That, as well as the humility and nobility as to which Serkets tend to lack. Anyhow, tangents aren't necessary. Model planes, evidentially hand-crafted, hung from little hooks upon their ceiling from chains. Most were various models of war planes, but there was a few others strung up hither and thither. I couldn't name them for myself, yet I had a feeling that Tray themselves would be able to put a title to them immediately. There were also shelves that had  been meticulously put up, with wooden figurines of varying sizes littering them. Whittled by none other than my child, if I were to assume by the half completed items accompanied by a wickedly sharp crafting knife on their workbench. Whittling. The thought made me chuckle, seeing as such an antiquated art was still practiced by none other than my own offspring.  
  
I stood, wandering over to the shelf nearest to the bed that housed such small figures upon it. The trip was not lengthy, considering that their room was not exactly the most spacious of placed. They seemed to be assorted mythological creatures, mainly consisting of an abundant amount of faeries. To my astonishment, they were intricately crafted, features visible on each one as clear as day. Most had joyful, impish expressions, and there were even a few that were obviously made in mind with others, some looking at each other with gleeful eyes and devilish countenances as they snuck up on another that wore a joyful yet completely oblivious expression, heedless of the mischief that would surely rain down upon it in a few moments. The statuettes almost looked lifelike. In the end, I found myself walking around and looking at all of these little creatures that strayed across Tray's shelving units, and it became more and more evident to me that they had laid them out in specific places, painting a portrait that told a tale that was as rich as their imagination obviously was.  
  
Finally I came to the last shelves, three stacked upon each other in parallel. However, the figurines on these shelves were vastly different from the rest. They had been painted, so delicately that one would think that a master craftsman had fabricated them. Once again, they looked lifelike, as if they would simultaneously all spring into action, playing tag, or throwing snowballs, or pushing up an oversized hat that had fallen over one unfortunate elf's eyes. Finally, my eyes strayed to the top shelf. My heart caught in my throat as they lingered upon the finely painted statuettes that sat around up there.  
  
Vriska, holding a pirate's cutlass up in the air triumphantly in the air, a brilliant coat that even I would be envious of billowing out around her. Magnificently crafted boots adorned her feet, one resting up upon a craggy rock as she grinned in her miniature form. A glint resided in her eyes as she held the sword aloft, looking as rebellious and mutinous as I knew her to be. Yet the statue lacked the bravado, seeming to be true bravery that rested upon her features. The likeness of the small statue was terrifying in its own way.  
  
Next up was Aranea, a similar, yet softer grin on her features. A book was clutched to her chest as she stood there, almost plainly though still lovely. I suppose that would be how I'd describe her as well, if I weren't aware of a lot of the other shenanigans that she occupied herself with in her spare time.  
  
It was obvious as to whom the next person was meant to be, lounging around comfortably in a chair with the most malignant grin of all. The to call the piece of furniture a mere chair is somewhat of an understatement: it was exquisite, marvellous, and resembled more of a throne than anything else. The throne itself had such intricate detail worked into it, embellished with scorpions and spiders, claws and webs. The Scorpio sigil was emblazoned upon the back in a brilliant cobalt blue. However, what really caught my eye was the person herself. She was beautiful, blonde hair falling about her in waves, glossier looking than the dyed black of Vriska's tresses, and more bountiful than the way that Aranea's bob fell around her carefully sculpted jaw. The coat that she adorned was as gorgeous, if not more so, than Vriska's, boots coming up to the knees of her crossed legs. A plethora of rings graced her fingers as they ran across the blade of the sword that she held. It was almost as if I was staring into a tiny, fantasy mirror as I gazed, enraptured by the stunning yet practically demonic way I had been depicted.  
  
There were two figures I had yet to look at.  
  
As my gaze travelled along the shelf, my heart dropped to my feet. There he was. Standing tall, compared to the others, and just as handsome as the day that I had met him. What a wondrous day that was. I couldn't help myself from taking him from the shelf to scrutinise the figure more closely. Broad features were stretched into that warm beam that he always wore so well, weathered face even having small nicks in place of scars. Even the crinkle at the corner of his eyes were in place, an unmistakable twinkle in those dark orbs. A shock of red and brown hair stood up straight on his head, neat though somehow always looking so tousled. How they had managed to capture him so well I could never know. They weren't old enough when he disappeared to remember much of him, and I had removed all photos of him that I possessed. Perhaps Vriska had shown them the photo album. His arms, crossed over that broad chest of his, bore the muscles that I knew him to have, and he stood as proudly as he always had. The only difference was the great wings that sprouted from his back, the wings of a butterfly. Such fanciful and dainty wings they were, and they contrasted so strangely with how the man actually was. Out of place, yet fitting at the same time.  
  
I glanced back to the still slumbering Tray who was still there, still breathing, and so horribly neglected by no other than myself. How could I have forgotten him so effortlessly? How could I have been so comfortable to forsake the heir that we had made through throes of passion? Tray was a symbol of something that I had effortlessly disregarded, and now it was returning to lock its jaws around my aching, black soul. I looked back to the figure in my hands, turning him back over so that I could look at his face one last time. One tear splashed off of his rugged arm. Someone was sniffling pathetically, and I decided that it was then that he was to be set back in his place upon the shelf. Finally, I could turn my attention to the last figurine.  
  
This one, I had almost missed entirely. It was small, and almost unnoticeable; despite the fact that it was in the foreground. Arms wrapped around legs, and a head resting on them. Bandages enveloped skinny limbs, twisting all the way up to bared shoulders. The head was resting on it's side, pointed towards the rest of the ones on the shelf. It was then that I became aware of the fact that it was distinctly set further away from the rest of them, whilst the rest were practically huddled up. Swallowing, I turned it to look at the face of the model, one that had obviously been seen in a mirror many a time. Both eyes were open, and had both evidentially been painted at one point. However, the brown one had clearly been repeated scratched and gouged at in fits of loathing.  
  
A lump had formed in my throat as I looked back at my child, the one that was not made of wood, and was not monocular. Once that I had made sure that the figures were as close to their original positions as I could humanly manage, I returned to the bedside, but not before stopping by the workbench. There were a few works in progress here: a fairy being whittled, a model plane being assembled and a half painted miniature galleon. There was a first aid kit on the side, as well as various colours splattered into the wood of the desk. I knew that poking around their room shouldn't have been something that I was doing, but I was curious, and one knows that curiosity must always be sated. Soon, the knife was in my hand, and I brought out a piece of paper from my pocket. I held it up, and the knife cut through it with more ease than I was comfortable with. It was only then that I spotted the colour that was splatted across the handle of what I had in my hand. At first, I believed it to be rust, or even perhaps more paint.  
  
Blanching, I returned the knife to the desk, before briskly making my way back over to Tray's side. Recalling the bandages that covered the sculpture's arms, I hesitated. Hesitation was not something that I was entirely adjusted to, for it meant I was unsure. I despised being unsure of anything. After a steadying breath I rolled up the sleeves of Tray's jacket, the royal blue of the sleeve scrunching over and over as I hastened to uncover their arm. Breath caught in my lungs as I saw the stained fabric covering their forearm, hiding the tanned skin beneath it. Heart beating faster than I had ever thought it could, I began to unwrap the dressing.  
  
Seeing it in person was much worse than I could've expected. Wounds of varying ages littered their arm, words scratched into the flesh. Insults, all obviously directed at themselves. Frenzied, deep cuts that looked as if they were done in the heat of the moment - carved as an attempt to destroy and hurt themselves. Other marks were there as well, I could see. Burns, bruises, abrasions. I was feeling faint, yet blood and wounds had never bothered me before. Perhaps it was because none of what I had seen before were so... Intentional. I was agape, horrified that they felt that they needed to do this to themselves, to punish themselves so harshly. Evidentially they hadn't even attempted to do first aid on these ones, unlike their meticulously kept hands. Ragged scars underlay most of the fresh markings, caused by infections and repeatedly removing the scabs that would've healed over them.  
  
The worst part of it all was that I knew, I  _knew_ , that this was all my fault.  
  
Before I could halt myself, I had pulled Tray into my arms, fiercely embracing them as I ran my fingers through that almost foreign brown hair. It was so soft. My child, something that came from me, felt abandoned and forsaken and useless due to my neglect of them. I knew that if I were to have uncovered their other arm I would have discovered more. At some point after I grabbed them they had woken up, startled. I refused to let them go, I couldn't yet. Without caring about how distasteful I found my own weak display, I sobbed feeble apologies into their shoulder. Inadequate promises that I knew would never be enough were made, each one given as much meaning as I could inject into my words as was possible.  
  
Tray was clearly confused by the whole scenario, yet was gently patting the back of the head of a weak woman in her waning years as she broke down upon her child's shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> So this suddenly came to me at like 8 in the evening after having rped the human version of Tavrisprite (Tray) for a long while and was originally meant to be more about her being envious rather than guilty but this worked too. Please tell me if you think that I should add any tags.


End file.
